Pondering my fascination
with r a i n, mysterious,
the sound, so glorious.
A scramble show of people
darting for shelter, but
me, walking amidst the
droplets with apparent
impudence, arrogance -
   be proud, Napoleon.
Strutting as if
it doesn't touch me,
holding closed umbrella
to side, swinging,
swaying motion carrying
about with great abandon,
carefree freedom.

Clap my hands in time,
corner street performer
strumming
  in time, wailing away,
casting glimpses of his
soul to this gallery piece,
singing a sorrow familiar
into perfect, pitch black
oblivion, soaring pitches
dancing on the stratosphere,
mingling, doing the samba
with the drops before their
    splash.

Across street, B-Boy finds
pleasure in my trite and
minimalist beat,
inspiration with Indie boy's
melodic feat and we
watch with appreciation,
admiration to this man's
feet play dance with rain,
guiding his path,
finding grooves, pulses,
nuances untrained eyes
spy not.

We know innovation never
dies, an abrupt conclusion;
ignorant at best, foolish at the
opposite end and we're in
the middle, lost in the shuffle
of people's ambitions and
deferred wishes.

         - blessed rain -
Songs we sing, dances we ,
and I imagine myself porous,
soaking in the spirit of the
peace that abounds, across,
down my face; I find my pen
at the ready, the page fills.
         - blessed rain -